


Speculations Past

by perilouspage



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Ficlets, Implied felix/locus - Freeform, Multi, implied Wash/Tucker, nothing explicit but I have headcanons and it shows, s13, s14
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:34:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27718250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perilouspage/pseuds/perilouspage
Summary: A collection of drafts written between seasons 13-14. They are canon-compliant up to s14, mostly filling in missing scenes and speculating on where the series would go. Includes canon-typical violence. Enjoy my draft-clearing day!
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> While I'm long divorced from the RvB fandom, I really enjoyed writing these pieces once upon a time. Please enjoy the writing I did before a bachelor's thesis robbed all of my writing time, and the editing done post-thesis that reminded me why writing is fun.
> 
> Ch1: Set in s13e7, "Locus of Control". What did Felix see inside the portal?

With a blinding blue-white flash of light, Felix enters the portal. He feels his feet touch solid ground before he can see, and it takes a moment for his ears to stop ringing. When they do, the surroundings are silent, and he finds that he's alone.

"Locus?" he calls, unnecessarily. "Come on." His own voice reverberates around the chamber, bouncing off of the nondescript barriers arranged about the place like a maze. The ambient light is pure white, and his own shadow is stark. He tries again, voice a bit more uncertain, but gets no response save his own echo. He flips on his radio, calls his partner a third time, but both his radio and his HUD are feeding him soft static. Either the room is blocking transmissions, or someone is screwing with him.

"Well, fuck," he says, now much more softly. "Looks like I'm doing this by myself." He pulls his handgun out of its holster, weighs it in one hand. It's reassuring, as is the familiarity of it's chipped green paint. He pops the clip out and checks for bullets, just to be safe, and then snaps it shut and begins forward at a meandering pace. If a cold seed of uncertainty plants itself in his chest, he would certainly never admit it.

The only sounds he hears are his own footsteps and breathing. He begins to hum a tune, just to ease the pressure of the silence. He sees no one, not even an indication that someone might be lurking nearby, and it unnerves him in a subtle, sneaking sort of way. He wonders if he should be looking for the sword, or if it will present itself to him. He wonders if the sword is even here. The thought that Locus might already have gotten it flits through his head, but he lets it pass like a breeze. He never saw Locus, it would be impossible for him to have found it. Maybe the portal had already spat him out, deeming him unworthy right off the bat.

He wishes this mission wouldn't take so goddamn long. Some test of strength this was turning out to be.

It feels like an hour that Felix walks, occasionally flipping his HUD on just to check the static. Patience isn't his virtue, and the miniscule amount of it he has fades fast. Eventually he stops walking, groans, and lets his arms and shoulders go limp in a display of irritation. "God, if you're not gonna give me the sword, just let me go already!" He fires one shot into the ground beside him. It rings through the quiet room like a crack of thunder, and Felix forces himself back into calm.

That's when he hears it: the scrape of a boot on the concrete floor behind him. He spins to the sound, pistol raised. There stands Locus, the muzzle of his own rifle aimed right at Felix's heart.

Locus doesn't flinch at being caught, his aim unwavering. He doesn't say a word. Felix can't even hear breathing through Locus' helmet's filter. "Okay, seriously, what the fuck, man?" Felix says. "Are you really gonna kill me over this sword?" As he speaks, he flicks his empty hand outward in a failed attempt to summon the light shield. The energy crackles and dies at his fingertips, but Locus pays the motion no heed.

"It's more than that," Locus replies. "You've outlived your usefulness to this mission, Felix. I've grown tired of your impatience and your attitude. Being an obstacle to the sword is the final nail in your coffin."

The situation isn't right and Felix knows it. Locus' voice doesn't echo, and his voice filter is still functioning despite the complete malfunction of Felix's suit's functions. He doubts the reality of it all, remembering what the pirate who'd tested the portal said about nightmare visions. Still, his stomach goes sour with Locus' words. "This is bullshit," Felix insists. "What impatience? We've spent years setting this up."

"And you blew our cover. Our employer isn't standing for this any longer, nor am I." He takes a step forward, smooth. He isn't trying to look impossibly tall and intimidating, he simply is.

"You wouldn't kill me, Locus."

Locus evenly says, "Wouldn't I?"

Before Felix can respond, Locus lunges impossibly fast, knocks Felix's pistol from his hands, and pushes Felix firmly backwards. Felix stumbles. The room tilts as he falls, and he cracks his head so hard on the floor that he swears he feels his helmet chip even over the rattling of his brain in his skull. Locus plants one boot on Felix's throat.

Felix scrambles, hands desperately reaching for purchase on Locus' ankle. The man's stance is impossible, his leg concrete and unyielding despite Felix's thrashing. Locus simply presses harder and harder, unfettered. It's brutal and slow. The lack of air slowly makes Felix weak, his vision begins to cloud and swim. His fingers, pressed to the grooves of Locus' boot, slowly lose purpose. All he can do is huff uselessly for breath and stare into Locus' unmoving, unfeeling visor.

"You knew this was coming," Locus says. "The Counselor knew, as well. That's why he hired Sharkface, to fill your position."

"I trusted you," Felix tries to say. The pressure on his windpipe turns it into a pathetic wheeze. He feels his heartbeat in his temples, behind his eyes, in his throat under Locus' foot.

Locus scoffs once, levels his gun to Felix's visor, and shoots.

* * *

Light, sound, and the sensation of falling all flood Felix at once as he's ejected from the portal. He skids to the ground face-first at the witnessing pirates' feet, and they scrabble frantically away. One brave soul steps forward to help Felix up, but Felix hisses and spits like a cat, forcing himself back to his feet without aid. He begins to pace around the small room, noticing Locus' absence immediately. When he barks his grievances to no one in particular, a pirate swears that Locus hasn't left the portal yet.

It takes another few minutes of tight pacing before Locus reappears. He stumbles, but stays standing, shoulders hunched and face down.

"Locus!" Felix cries. "It's about goddamn- HEY!"

Locus draws his gun immediately, flinching visibly when Felix yells. "What did you see?" he insists, voice cracking behind the filter.

Felix recognizes the panic in Locus' stance and determines quickly that, whatever Locus saw, it was different than his own vision.

"Calm down, asshole," Felix says. "You're fine. It was an illusion- You know, a trick?"

"What did you see?"

Felix sighs. Like hell he'll admit what he saw, especially to Locus. His first inclination is to deflect. "If you must know, I passed the test. Turns out I am a true warrior."

"What?"

"No, just kidding. But it was... bad. I saw shit straight out of my nightmares."

And, like most diversions that Felix spins, it isn't even a lie.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ch2, immediately post s13, specifically e19 and e20. It was written during s14, so it references the mercenary trio shorts. What does Locus do post-disappearance?
> 
> Warning: graphic content ahead.

_Step one: Get out alive._

“If you run, we’ll find you,” Tucker says, steely promise heavy in his voice. His sword crackles with energy to emphasize his point, filling in the implied _and we’ll kill you_.

“No, you won’t,” Locus replies evenly, and activates his cloaking unit. 

It’s easy to ignore the buzz that immediately kicks up in the base of his skull, the out-of-date armor mod whining from overuse. It simply fades out of his awareness, joining the cacophony of warning alarms his slowly-failing armor is feeding him. He steps as silently and swiftly as he can around the SIM troopers, before they can suddenly decide to mobilize against him. He manages to get around them undetected, which is either a testament to his own skill or to their preoccupation with the temple.

As he flees the scene, Locus hears one of the troopers say, “If I ever see another mercenary, it’ll be too soon.”

He grinds his teeth in silent, awful agreement. 

* * *

_Step two: Find the body._

Locus knows he has very little time. As soon as the Reds and Blues get their word out, search parties will be combing the planet for Felix and Locus both, if they aren’t already. Locus knows he can keep himself hidden for as long as he must, but Felix…

Felix calls after him, even in death. Locus has to see what became of his once-partner.

It’s an unpleasant haul back to the temple’s base. Locus’ entire body aches to the bone, and his head swims. As nausea makes him rock, he’s reminded of the ground’s trembling as the kill tower collapsed, the force of the rubble crashing into and over Felix’s shield. He remembers how it felt as Felix let go of his hand, his strength failing against tons of rock and steel, his panic overwhelming, suffocating--

But the pain pulls Locus back to the present. Methodically, he catalogues his injuries. He’s sure that several of his ribs are broken. There are multiple lacerations in his left flank, where he can still feel fine bits of shrapnel lodged in his flesh. His head is throbbing, and he can taste blood. When he steps forward onto his left leg, it buckles like it doesn’t want to hold his weight. Every injury is belied by hairline fractures in his armor and torn swaths of his undersuit, the whole ordeal leaking blood, pink-tinged biofoam, and armor coolant. But he can still move, and as long as that’s true, he can march on.

First, Locus searches the bluff their ship had crashed on, where the tower’s ground floor connects. Of course, he has no luck; a fall from the top of the tower to here wouldn’t kill a man in power armor, and Locus knows that Felix is dead. The proof of that is holstered to his hip: the energy sword that he’d managed to operate. And so the search descends down the steep cliff at the temple’s back. It’s a slow, arduous process, finding footholds and handholds in the rock. His entire body buzzes with adrenaline, pain, overuse, and fatigue.

Eventually, Locus reaches the bottom of the ravine. Here, several sets of mismatched armor and human remains in various states of decay are scattered about. He pays them no mind; most likely, they’re all victims of war or petty crime, and they’d been dumped here like garbage to get rid of evidence. Maybe Felix, himself, or their men had even killed some of these now-rotting corpses. Normally he wouldn't even glance at them, but he's seeking a specific corpse now, and it forces him to look. He can't decide if he feels anything, but the act of looking in itself doesn't seem right.

Farther down the body-strewn valley, he finds Felix... or, more accurately, what was once Felix. The tangle of limbs, now barely held together by armor and a Kevlar undersuit, are twisted into a shape beyond what could be called human. For a brief moment, Locus feels a near-overwhelming bout of nausea; he gags once, breathes deeply through his nose, and forces the bile in his stomach back down. Now isn’t the time.

Locus bends, his every nerve screaming, and investigates. It’s a gruesome sight; Felix’s head is twisted violently and unnaturally from his torso. The faceplate is shattered and falling in, enough to see one of Felix’s lifeless eyes and the blood of unknown origin dripping into and over it. Even aside from this, the body’s in bad shape; parts of the armor, like the chestplate, are shattered or warped from the force of impact. It’s almost, _almost_ pitiful, until Locus hears Felix’s voice echoing in his head: _“You’ll die like the rest of them.”_

Locus is suddenly seized with indecision. Part of him, the part that wants to vomit, is feeling the echoes of human sentimentality. Maybe it's the pain, maybe he's experienced some kind of brain damage, or maybe he's looked at too many stages of decay in the last hour of searching. He remembers a time when he and Felix had still been relatively innocent mercs, two of a trio, and Felix had gotten himself hurt beyond being able to stand. Locus had hauled him back up, shouting worriedly in his partner’s face, before walking him back to Sirus. He’d born all of Felix’s weight then. It wouldn’t be unreasonably hard now, to haul his partner’s broken corpse out of this hellhole and give it a burial... if not out of respect for Felix himself, then for the respect garnered by the years they’d spent together.

But there is another part of him warring for dominance. It’s angrier, more nebulous, than its competitor. It's cold, heavy in his stomach. It knows, despite the many years he’d spent with Felix, that the man had never seen Locus as his partner, his equal, or even his friend. When it had come down to it, Felix had been willing to drop Locus like a sack of shit.

_“You’ll die like the rest of them.”_

And so, with eyes that don’t sting because decades of his and Felix's work have conditioned him out of crying, Locus makes up his mind about what his partner deserves. If _the rest of them_ died like animals, if _the rest of them_ were forgotten and left to rot in the bottom of a ravine, then Felix certainly isn’t above that. Felix deserves to die like the rest of them.

Locuse crouches until his face is level with Felix’s, unclasping his helmet and lifting it to his nose. He gets close enough to see his own breath cloud the outside of Felix's visor. Then, after a still moment, he grunts and spits, bloody saliva spattering over the faceplate and into the exposed, unblinking eye.

With that, he replaces his helmet, winces at the renewed sound of the armor’s failure warning alarms, and leaves Felix’s corpse. The body is left mangled, the armor completely unsalvageable, and he feels nothing as he walks away.

* * *

_Step three: find a ship._

He knows he can’t step foot into the ship he and Felix had been using. For one, the Chorusians will be looking for it, and if he’s captured, there will be no convincing them of his intentions to make things right. He also cannot let them think he’s still affiliated with Charon, with Hargrove… or with Felix. He must be his own man for any of this slowly-congealing plan to work.

He limps his way back to the abandoned Capitol on foot, taking cover where he can and being extremely mindful of the sounds of passing helicopters. The city is a nuked-out husk, thanks to General Doyle, but Locus marches onward anyway, knowing what he’ll find there.

The unmarked Pelicans that Hargrove’s troops had used to get to the city are parked a safe distance outside it's borders. Now that the squads are dead, they won’t need extraction.

He finds them, all huddled under a convenient outcropping of rock, a few miles from the Capitol proper. He chooses a Pelican, one he knows he can rest in for a while unseen before piloting it away. It takes one last push, adrenaline leaving him and energy flagging, to pop open it's back hatch. The air that meets him is stagnant, or perhaps he's just finding it harder to breathe. He manages to haul himself in, reach for the automated closure latch, and flip it, before his body gives. He folds to his knees, then to all fours, and then face-down on the dirty, brushed-steel floor. He gets himself onto his back, every injury screaming, and the act of spinning sets the room in nauseating, sea-like motion. He has just enough time to acknowledge the pain, the dizziness, and the long road ahead before he lets go and falls to unconsiousness.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post-s13ep20. Written during s14, so not accurate to the canon that comes after. What happens after the Reds and Blues crash?

Hargrove's ship leaves a gargantuan scar in the earth where it crash-lands. It's deeper than any of the first responders care to measure, for fear of unnecessary injury. The entire ship and the ground around it are smoking, and the responders scrabble around the edges of the scene, dwarfed like ants at the base of a skyscraper. A few fires are seen through the clouds of black, acrid smoke. The whole place is oddly silent, until a public transmission from General Kimball crackles through every helmet's comms, heavy and choked: _Do not enter the wreckage. There are likely no survivors._

Agents Washington and Carolina know better than that.

Bodies part unquestioningly to let the Freelancers through. They pull ahead of the crowd, guns raised. Several soldiers try to follow, either to help the Freelancers or to tell them to stop, but Kimball orders her men- and they are all now her men- to stand down. They do, though reluctantly. This leaves the Freelancers to slide into the deep ditch left in the ship's wake, depth regardless, and make their way to the emergency hatch. It’s crumpled inward like cardboard, unlike heavy steel, and raised about 15 feet above the ground. The metal ladder rungs leading up to it have been partially ground off on impact; several are missing, and the rest are bent at improbable angles. Carolina acts like they’re barely an inconvenience. She hauls herself upward, impressive feats of upper body strength getting her past the missing rungs. An aggressive swipe of her right hand gets her fingers lodged in the hatch. It only takes a few angry pulls to get it to swing free and clatter down into the ravine beside Wash. A cloud of smoke swells forth, but Carolina dives into the access she’s made almost immediately. As Wash desperately scrambles up the side of the ship, Carolina says something softly into the Reds and Blues' private channel, something that sounds like please, boys.

The channel feeds them static in response. As he enters in behind Carolina, he feels his guts twist. The situation is so foreign and yet so familiar, preemptive grief and preemptive hope held together in sickening harmony.

The only lighting comes from behind them, and from the dimming emergency lights in the corridor ahead. "I'm going in," Carolina says to Wash. Her tone practically dares him to object, and he does not. "Cover me."

Once in, the pair can barely see. They flip on motion tracking and night vision, and press onward. The smell of mechanical fire and burning flesh is nauseating, and Wash wonders why they even have air filters. He wishes he knew where Carolina was going, taking snaking turns and calling around smoke-obscured corners. He wishes that Carolina knew.

Just when the hope in Wash finally begins to fizzle, they hear something. It's a scraping of boots to a brushed-steel floor, separate from and greater than the sound the Freelancers already make. "It's them," Carolina insists. The next turn the pair takes leads them into a wide hallway. Black-armored bodies litter the floor, pools of their blood nearly reflective in the low light. It isn't hard, then, to spot the rainbow of soldiers leaning against the walls and each other, battered, bleeding through hairline fractures in their armor, but undoubtedly alive.

"Thank God," Carolina says. "Let's get them out of here."

Agent Washington doesn't respond. He's locked his gaze forward, caught in the middle of his head-count. The Reds are grouped together: Grif is awkwardly trying to support a limping Simmons' weight, a wounded Donut is thrown over Sarge's shoulder in a fireman's carry, and Lopez follows behind with one missing arm. Doc has one hand clamped over his own left side, slick with blood. It's the Blues that make him stop: Caboose is out cold, and he's being dragged, slowly and backwards, by the Meta.

But it isn't the Meta. Can't be the Meta. The armor is tinted teal, the wearer too slim beneath the hulking chestplate. The wearer swivels that mirrored faceplate towards Wash, and they snap at him in Tucker's voice: "Hurry up and help me out, man!"

Wash doesn't register the comment fully, but he feels himself lurch forward anyway, on autopilot. He lifts Caboose's legs, and the trio of soldiers begin a hobbling march back out of the wreck. Carolina has taken up Simmons' opposite side, and she calls over to not-Meta, "How are we doing, Church?"

Every SIM trooper capable turns their helmet to avoid looking her in the face.

* * *

Wash doesn't remember the transition from the low light of the wreck to the dazzling brightness outside. He's just suddenly aware of his surroundings, like he'd teleported from one place to the next. Some of the Armonians are wildly firing their spare ammunition into the air, and others rush to aid, pushing wads of gauze into Doc's side, taking Simmons from Grif and Carolina, gingerly loading Donut and Caboose onto stretchers. Relieved of Caboose, Washington finds himself standing still, listening to the cacophony of gunfire and yelling as if his ears were full of cotton. He doesn't think to board the Pelican after not-Meta and the sim troopers. Carolina is suddenly in his narrow field of vision- _when had it gotten so narrow?_ \- and calls his name. He turns his eyes to her, but not his head.

"Wash," she says. "The fight's over." Her voice is pregnant with grief, but she looks him in the face with a helmet that exudes nothing but grim determination. He feels her hand slip into his. "Let's go."

Wash allows himself to be led onto the Pelican. Carolina stands over him, locking his harness over his chest, before taking the only open seat left and strapping herself in. Across from the pair, not-Meta has already buckled in, as have the battered Reds. As the plane shuts and begins its ascent, he pops his mirrored helmet off. There isn't a pale, bald head hidden beneath the helmet, no metastability tattoo. Instead, Tucker's dark skin and close-cropped black curls are revealed. His eyes look heavy and pained; when he finally meets Wash's gaze, his lip buckles a little. "They put Caboose and Donut on another plane," he says. "Monitoring their condition or some shit."

The haze lifts from Washington's senses, if only a little. The plane's hum is the only sound, each soldier unwilling or unable to fill the gap. And in the tense absence of conversation, with the stress beginning to bleed out of Wash's muscles, he notices his helmet ping. Confused, he loads his personal helmet log, and at the top of the list sits a new recording, simply labeled: _To Washington_.

* * *

Carolina collects the AI slots from each soldier's armor when they land at Crash Site Alpha. The scene reminds Wash of a teacher collecting homework at the classroom door; she simply holds out her hands, and each Red and Blue drops a color-coded chip into them before stumbling off to the makeshift med bay. A trembling Fed drops two into the pile, one from Caboose and the other from Donut. She clutches them in her hands, against her chestplate, and when Wash tilts his head at her, she simply responds, "You think I'm letting them run these? We've seen what they do to people."

"I know," Wash says.

"Kimball said rescue ships are at least a day out. I'm going to run diagnostics while we wait." Wash makes a wordless sound of objection, and she continues with haste. "Not in my armor, idiot. I'm going to try to find an actual computer. And then I'll listen to... the message. Maybe then I'll know what to do with these."

Wash watches her go. He curses not asking if she needed help, but then, what would he have done? He has no desire to even touch those chips, let alone know what's in them. The thought of the Reds and Blues running those programs makes him uneasy. The thought of simply trashing them makes him even more so.

He spins a full circle, taking in the surroundings. The disabled Mantis drones have been dragged to the far end of the site, the grassy earth torn with many parallel gouges. Soldiers are now milling about in various states of awareness; some are still in full armor, guns drawn and pointed into the shadowed forest, while others have stripped to their undersuits, even unzipped them to the hips and tied the sleeves. It's chaotic in the same way every post-war battlefield is; men bleeding, men crying, men desperately ignoring the dead laid out not fifty feet away, the entire crowd blending into itself until one man is indistinguishable from the next. Wash falls into the throng seamlessly, just another faceless, grieving soldier. He eventually finds a vacant stack of crates, shaded by a wide-leafed tree and reasonably private. Crossing his gun across his chest like he's on guard, Wash settles onto the crates, loads up the new "log" waiting for him, and lets it play. 

_"Dear Washington... Hell, that doesn't sound right. Hey, Wash. Christ, that's off, too. Just... listen. If you're hearing this message, then the Reds, Blues, and fragments I've left behind have officially saved Chorus' collective ass. You said before that you never doubted them, and even though that's a goddamn lie, tell them that again for me. They all got a little message too, but I have a feeling that it'll mean more from somebody who's actually there. I know you're probably not happy about the Meta armor, or the fragments. If there'd been another way, I would've done it. I just want to say... I'm sorry, Wash. Really. About what I did to you, about what Freelancer did to you. But right now, I really need you on your game. Somebody's gotta protect the idiots I left behind, and I can't think of anyone more qualified than you. Take care, Wash."_


End file.
